Green and Pleasant Land Page 7

  ‘This is clearly a declaration that we’re staying here come what may,’ she said resignedly, helping him off with his waterlogged coat, which was dripping on the polished kitchen floor.

  ‘So was your announcement to Webster that we’d found something fishy,’ he countered, easing off his wellies by pulling the heels against the doorstep, and regretting the absence of welly socks. ‘Which by my reckoning means both of us are off our heads. OK, OK, I acted on instinct with those damned logs. I should have let them float away … Is it my imagination, by the way, or is the place still cold? Because if it is, logs or not, we’re finding a hotel.’

  The agent had taken the welcome pack. He’d left a note telling them not to use the bathroom extractor fan in case it undid his temporary repair, and several oil-filled radiators, though he’d apparently forgotten to switch any on. Whatever heat they gave, they’d give it slowly. Fran was fairly sure she didn’t want to hang round to discover their eventual thermal output.

  ‘Of course we are. Right now. I’ll go and pack. Hang on, what’s that?’ She peered round the door to see a tanker inching slowly back towards her. ‘Bloody hell, it’s only the gasman who cometh. What a saint!’

  ‘Maybe it’s an omen,’ Mark murmured, almost hoping it wasn’t, and that they could declare their investigations dead and get back to Kent.

  The gas delivery driver proved a saint indeed, saying that as he was wearing oilskins and had to keep an eye on the tank feed anyway he’d help Mark stow the logs. They went in the proper place this time – a shelter behind the tank. Although she was ready to dash out to help, Fran saw they were deep in conversation, Mark asking questions, apparently, and the driver responding. Should she leave them to it while she brewed coffee for them all? And why not dig out some of those lovely biscuits? Dressed as if for a route march, she carried a tray carefully across their new stream.

  The men were talking about football. Football? In the circumstances it might just be almost as important as the welcome LPG, so she didn’t attempt to join in. The driver left with a smile, which should broaden even more when he found the twenty pound note she had tucked in his cab.

  Mark’s grin was just as wide. ‘Roy Swallow. A saviour in more ways than one. He’s given me a better lead than any we’ve had so far,’ he said. ‘His dad used to be in the West Midlands force. Joe Swallow. Based in West Bromwich about the time of Natalie’s disappearance. He was what was called the match commander – police manager, these days. And Roy there reckons nothing pleases his dad more than having a chinwag with other ex-cops. I’ll phone him now …’

  The King’s Arms in Ombersley was as warm and welcoming as they could have wished, with a menu as interesting as the previous evening’s. The place was old, with duck-or-grouse beams and roaring fires. But there was no sign of their contact. A man from a later generation might have spent his time on the Internet hunting information; Mark had a feeling that had he even started to research Phil Foreman Fran would have thrust the iPad down his throat. After forty-five minutes – they never ran out of things to talk about, even after all this time together – they gave her up and ordered. But just as their meals arrived, up surged a newcomer, asking for them by name. Fi Biddlestone had arrived.

  She was a strong-boned woman who might have been anything between fifty and seventy, with a crushing handshake. She was probably Fran’s age, but apparently didn’t care about skin or hair care. Fran resisted the sisterly urge to pass on the details of the commissioner’s hairdresser.

  ‘Floods,’ Fi declared, sitting heavily. ‘I’d have phoned but I couldn’t get a signal till I got within half a mile of here. And I’ve got to fight my way back, so I’m sorry, I can’t stay. Not to eat, anyway.’ She pushed away the menu, but looked regretfully at Mark’s lamb shank.

  ‘Look, have you time to eat this? I can reorder,’ he said. ‘The evening’s our own,’ he added briskly, hoping nonetheless that their yard-stream would still be navigable. Not to mention the other lanes.

  Fi hesitated but took the offer at face value, getting up to fetch cutlery from a side table. ‘Tell me about this volunteer policing,’ she said, ‘and how you see me fitting in. If you don’t mind I’ll just eat while you talk …’

  ‘Really you’re looking for someone to grass up their colleagues for failing to do their job properly,’ she summed up as she pushed her plate back and wiped her mouth.

  ‘Not at all. I’m sorry if I’ve given that impression,’ Mark protested, still awaiting his second supper. ‘Few enquiries can work miracles, especially given the circumstances in which this was conducted. But occasionally someone will pursue one line as opposed to another that might, with the benefit of hindsight, have proved more profitable.’

  ‘Archie Blount was one of the best,’ Fi declared. ‘Have you got him on side yet?’

  ‘The first we asked,’ Fran said truthfully. She cast an embarrassed glance at Mark, still waiting though she’d finished her perfect steak. ‘But he’s baking in a heatwave in New Zealand for the next three weeks, poor man – he must wish he was back home.’

  ‘Oh, yes – being warm and dry must be terrible,’ Fi agreed, her irony matching Fran’s.

  ‘And by that time we’re supposed to have everything tied up.’

  ‘Who did you say brought you in?’

  ‘Gerry Barnes, but—’

  ‘Tall thin guy? Knew a lot about the gee-gees. He’s done well, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Depends if you think redundancy equals doing well,’ Mark said. ‘The guy we’re answering to now is the ACC (Crime), Colin Webster.’

  ‘Little pen-pusher? Look, if I can get through the flood water, I’ll happily look through your files. But Archie did his best, even though we kept on falling over the private detectives swarming round. Paid for by that footballer, I suppose. I didn’t get the feeling he wanted her back but according to one of the PIs he had ambitions for that lad of his, I suppose. Hector or something …’ Absent-mindedly she reached for Mark’s glass of red and sank it.

  ‘Private detectives?’ he asked, regretting the wine rather less than the lamb, though when a waiter brought the replacement shank over, he might as well order more wine, too. A bottle. ‘I don’t recall seeing anything about that, do you, Fran?’

  ‘It’s not the sort of thing you miss, is it? You wouldn’t – I mean, it’s twenty years ago – recall a name, would you? The firm’s, not any individual investigator’s.’

  Fi flushed. ‘No. Not at all.’

  Fran caught Mark’s eye and made an infinitesimal movement. He knew at once what she meant – he was to take himself off. Muttering an excuse, and hoping their guest would limit her intake of his wine for her own sake – she’d soon be well over the limit and she’d need all her wits for what she’d said would be a tricky homeward journey – he headed for the gents’.

  ‘It’s all right, you know,’ Fran said. ‘It won’t go any further.’

  ‘What won’t?’ The flush spread into her hair, down her throat.

  ‘You obviously don’t want to contact this chap yourself. It all went pear-shaped, did it?’

  ‘OK, OK … it turned out he had a wife, and though I probably didn’t care two hoots at the time, I find I do now. No, I couldn’t face seeing … even talking … It’s not as if it would bring Natalie and the kid back, is it? Just a cold case.’

  ‘But we could talk to him very discreetly – say, as we said to you, that we were trying to contact everyone who had worked on the case,’ Fran said in the voice she’d always found useful when trying to cajole people into doing something they’d rather not do. ‘Just give me the name. I’ll sort it.’

  Fi paused while Mark’s lamb arrived, and while Fran asked for a bottle of Rioja, which came post-haste, along with a spare glass. Fran poured.

  ‘Desmond,’ Fi said at last. She stared into the glass, her eyes softening, and lifted it as if toasting the past. ‘Desmond Markwell. You could try googling him, I suppose.’

  Fran dug her
phone from her bag and did just that. Turning the screen so Fi could see, she asked, ‘Is that him?’

  There was no need for her to say anything. Fran killed the phone and took the other woman’s hand. ‘Thanks. If you can get through to Hindlip, we’d love to have you aboard.’ Her turn to blush. ‘What a stupid thing to say, in the circumstances! As if we were going into an ark!’ But she couldn’t resist glancing at Mark, over in the corner, wondering if he dared return yet; at least he and she would march in two by two.

  Despite the stream bubbling six feet from the kitchen doorstep, the cottage itself was still dry. If only they had some sandbags. Surely the cottage must have been at risk before, and somehow sandbags didn’t seem the sort of things you’d throw away. Leaving Fran to get the fire going properly again, Mark rooted round. No sandbags, but a lot of unopened plastic sacks full of potting compost and bulb fibre. He dragged them to the kitchen step, and heaved them into the nearest he could manage to a makeshift dam.

  At last he stepped into the blessed fug of the cottage; it was amazing what the combination of oil-filled radiators and central heating had achieved, not to mention a now roaring fire. Any moment now they’d have to open windows to cool the place down. But Fran had already opened the wine that they’d brought back from the pub, Fi having firmly declined it. And who’d want fresh air if they were going to take advantage of the candles she’d found and the wondrous sheepskin hearthrug?

  SEVEN

  Local radio made interesting if worrying listening the next morning. It was Mark’s turn to make their early morning tea in bed; what he saw from the kitchen window made him switch on the iPad as soon as, still in his dressing gown, he snuggled back beside Fran. Sleeping nude was all very well, and the central heating was doing its best, to judge by the bangs and throbs, but the cottage wasn’t insulated to the standards of their rectory.

  ‘I’m just checking we can get in to work today,’ he told the tip of Fran’s nose. ‘And when I’ve done that I thought I might just—’

  More of her emerged. ‘Email Caffy to see if the rectory’s still standing? Thank goodness she offered to house-sit for us. Anyway, this ’ere journey to Hindlip. Any problems?’ She peered at the iPad.

  ‘Nothing serious – just reports of standing water. But there’s a problem with Bewdley: they’ve closed the town centre so they can erect their flood defences.’

  ‘Will that mean Paula and I can’t get through to Thingbury Whatsit?’

  ‘Cleobury Mortimer. Let’s check the route – no, the Bewdley bypass is clear. And so is the A449 – I’m heading off to Wombourne, remember, to talk to Joe Swallow. I’ve not made up my mind whether to take Stu; I know you want to take Paula—’

  ‘Correction: I want to go with Paula. I’d be more than happy to talk to Mrs Roberts on my own, but it was Robyn’s gig, remember, in the first place. Actually with Robyn and Paula out, do you think you should ask Stu to mind the shop? Or would he feel horribly left out, like a male Cinders not allowed to go to the ball?’

  ‘The thing is,’ he said, getting up and grabbing clothes, ‘we haven’t enough bodies, have we? I didn’t get a great wave of commitment from Fi – looking over our files isn’t the same as working your arse off because you’re desperate to find answers. You know what I’m wondering?’

  ‘Whether we should ask Ted Day to join us? Perhaps we ought to discover the circumstances in which he left the force first? Or am I being a supine coward? Hell, we’re freelance. We don’t have to worry about office politics umpteen years ago. Do we?’

  ‘Let me think about it while I shave … Then I suggest, having been in the icebox of a bathroom, a repeat of yesterday: gym, shower, breakfast at Hindlip …’

  Having waved off Paula and Fran, Mark turned to Stu. ‘Can I ask you something in absolute confidence?’

  ‘Gaffer?’

  ‘Do you know anything about the part Ted Day played in the original search?’

  Stu’s shrug would have done a Frenchman credit. ‘I didn’t even know he was part of it. Hardly know the guy. Iris would be the one to ask.’

  ‘And would give full and frank disclosures?’

  ‘Depends on the questions you ask, I suppose.’

  Mark laughed. ‘You sound like Fran. Which you should take as a compliment.’

  ‘I do. I was a bit worried at first, but now I know her … Yeah, it’s a compliment.’

  ‘What question would you want to ask? Not that for a moment I’m suggesting you do any prodding; that’s my job.’

  ‘Look, I’m no high-flyer. Never have been. Can I think about this, gaffer? I’ve got stuff swirling round here.’ He touched the back of his head. ‘You know something, I’ve got a cousin who teaches in the same school as Ted. I’ll have a natter to her. But it may not be today. She never answers her phone when she’s at work. Not a good example, she says. And she only picks up texts during her lunch break. Anyway, I think ear to ear’s better sometimes, don’t you?’

  ‘I do indeed. Now, I’m going to be out for the morning. Wombourne. Do you fancy coming with me?’

  ‘You’re all right, thanks, gaffer.’ Which Mark suspected meant a negative. ‘I want to go through the evidence store and then these files again and check why no evidence was ever collected – as far as I can see, of course.’

  The reading matter in Marion Roberts’s sitting room told them she was no ordinary little old lady. The floor to ceiling bookshelves to the left of the chimney breast were full of modern first editions, not entirely surprising given the emendations she’d made to her statement. The other side was crammed with books on geology and the environment. An elegant Edwardian display table, essentially a glass box on fine inlaid legs, contained what Fran presumed must be some choice mineral specimens, each labelled in a tiny and meticulous script.

  Pouring tea – she used leaves and a strainer – and handing home-made cake, Mrs Roberts settled back, crossing slender legs elegantly. She must have been pushing eighty, but her shoes, if low-heeled, were chic, and her clothes well cut. The fuchsia polo-neck sweater, almost certainly cashmere, shouted joyously under a charcoal jacket. Her fingernails matched. ‘Tell me what you want to know.’

  ‘I sensed,’ Fran said carefully, ‘that making the witness statement wasn’t the height of your literary achievement. That whoever wrote it down—’

  ‘Carefully, with his tongue stuck out!’ Mrs Roberts gave a mocking demonstration.

  ‘—wasn’t as fluent or accurate as you’d have liked him to be. I’ve brought a copy—’

  Waving it away, Mrs Roberts laughed. ‘I have no need of an aide-memoire, I can assure you. I can see the events of – it must be almost exactly twenty years ago – as if they were yesterday. Rather better, in fact.’

  ‘Could you recount them again? So we can record them?’

  Mrs Roberts shook her head mockingly. ‘No shorthand skills? Dear me. Very well. More cake? Can I refresh your tea? There. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin …’

  They let her continue without interruption. The narrative matched almost word for word that in the statement. She did make clear that she and the Forestry Commission worker, whose name she now used – Mike Bridge – had shouted and called, only pausing when they heard the first of the emergency sirens. ‘It was then that I noticed the footprints.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Fran asked. ‘That’s not in the original.’

  ‘Isn’t it? It should have been. That idiot constable—’

  ‘Can I just pick you up on the footprints?’ Fran insisted. ‘Pretend that Paula and I are the idiot constable and tell us everything we should know about them. Size, direction—’

  ‘First let us establish that the greensward was soaked by the fog. You know what a lawn looks like when it’s covered in morning dew? The grass verge was like that. And just as, if you peg the washing out before the sun burns off the rain, you leave clear footprints—’

  ‘And get soaking wet shoes,’ Paula, who’d been disconcertin
gly quiet, put in.

  ‘Quite,’ Mrs Roberts said repressively. But then she smiled. ‘In fact, that’s a very good point. I can’t imagine any mother wanting her child to get its feet wet if they were going to continue their journey, can you? Because although our prints covered some of them, there were definitely two sets of prints: very small ones, at first close together, then further apart. You know how your stride lengthens when you run? Like that. Alongside were adult prints. Both sets continued along the verge for some yards, then veered to the right – on to the road, I presume. Certainly they disappeared. At this point the first police car arrived, and then there were more footprints than you could shake a stick at. When an ambulance arrived too, the scene became chaotic, and no wonder. Not that there was any hope of resuscitating the baby, even if anyone had wanted to try, poor little mite. Because I was concerned, later on I did a little research and found that it was rare for a child as badly handicapped as that to survive birth, let alone a few months – though I couldn’t tell exactly how old it was, because none of the usual developmental signs were there. The memory still grieves me. Why should anyone … surely there are tests? Why should a mother …’ She broke off, turning away. ‘But then, having nursed the child to that point, imagine leaving it the moment it died in order to chase the other child.’

  ‘Poor woman: what a dilemma. Talk about a judgement of Solomon.’ Paula stopped. Fran suspected she couldn’t speak.

  Mrs Roberts passed a box of tissues from an occasional table. ‘I’ll make fresh tea,’ she murmured, perhaps as an excuse to leave Fran to comfort the younger woman. In fact, as Paula gestured her frantically away, Fran got up and followed their hostess. Witness. But Mrs Roberts was so clearly in control of the situation, it felt more like a social call.

  ‘Paula’s a mother of two,’ Fran explained tersely. ‘I’m just a step-grandma,’ she added, in response to Mrs Roberts’s questioning eyebrow. ‘But I’d be hard put to choose between Phoebe and Marko. Is there anything else we should know? Any observations you’d care to make, entirely in confidence?’